


Leonid Trevelyan's Astounding Adventure In The Hinterlands

by delphox



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Hinterlands (Dragon Age), Mages and Templars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:51:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5280917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delphox/pseuds/delphox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonid Trevelyan is late for the Conclave. He runs into two people who were <i>also</i> late for the Conclave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leonid Trevelyan's Astounding Adventure In The Hinterlands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mstigergun (seismickitten)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mstigergun+%28seismickitten%29).



> Leonid Trevelyan belongs to [mstigergun.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mstigergun/pseuds/mstigergun) This work is part of [Inglorious.](http://archiveofourown.org/series/311874)

Leonid crouched behind a wide tree to catch his breath. He wasn’t sure what he had been running from, but he had been doing an awful lot of it since the Conclave had gone to shit. In the chaos that had followed it was better to keep moving, lest he find trouble. Or someone else in trouble, which was almost worse.

Leonid paused to still his shaking hands. Definitely worse.

There was a sudden, sharp crackle, and Leonid stifled a yelp. He stood up, back pressed against the tree, one hand on his bow. He could recognize that sound anywhere now, an apostate tugging at the Fade.

He braced himself for the sounds of battle, but they never came. Instead, he could hear tense, low voices. A man and a woman were arguing.

Leonid peered out from behind his tree.

He was struck by the sight of a rogue Templar, standing tall in the center of a small clearing. His armor was dull and dirty, and many jagged, angry scars wound their way across his dark face.

Just a few feet away from the Templar was the apostate. She stood defiant of him, arms crossed over her chest, though Leonid could see that she was unarmed and unprepared for a battle.

He had found trouble after all.

Leonid drew his bow and pulled an arrow out of his quiver. He’d had enough of this, he decided; he had witnessed too many atrocities from both sides without intervening, and guilt did not suit a man such as himself.

It was clear the apostate wanted nothing to do with the Templar’s meddling, that he had pressed for the confrontation. Was he here to kill her, or take her into custody? The latter was more likely, though Leonid could see his hand resting idly on the sword at his side.

He notched the arrow and leaned forward, hesitant. He imagined the arrow finding its mark in the Templar’s throat. There would be blood, and quite a lot of it. The image of the Templar’s eyes rolling back until they only showed white, his body going limp as he crumpled to the ground, flashed across his imagination.

Leonid swallowed. Perhaps he’d let them be, today. If the Templar was merely taking the apostate captive, surely he could leave them to their own business.

The Templar’s hand shot out and gripped the apostate’s arm. Leonid gasped and almost dropped his bow. His stomach turned. He couldn’t watch another person die, not now. Even if it meant killing someone himself.

Leonid leapt out with a flourish, landing in a roll and coming to a stop with an arrow pointed at the Templar’s throat.

“Unhand her, Templar!” he spat, voice wavering only a little. “I’ll kill you where you stand! And - and - don’t think I won’t do it! I’ve killed plenty of your ilk before, so you had better cooperate before my arrow finds purchase in your throat!”

His speech appeared to have the desired effect. The Templar slowly removed his hand from the apostate’s arm and took a step back, eyes fixed on Leonid. The apostate, now that he could see her face, turned her glare onto him.

“Who are you?” she demanded. The Templar shook his head slightly, eyes flicking from Leonid’s face to his bow.

“Leonid Trevelyan of Ostwick, at your service,” said Leonid cooly, lips curling into a smile. “I’d get up to _bow_ , but seeing as my _bow_ is the only thing between you and-”

“Trevelyan?” interrupted the Templar, looking over at the apostate. He sounded almost… incredulous, but it was difficult to tell through the Orlesian accent.

“Quiet,” said Leonid, jabbing the bow in his direction. It wouldn’t do well to lose the upper hand through conversation. He had already taken too long to kill the man.

“I’ll thank you not to be so rude to my little brother,” snapped the apostate, crossing her arms again, “Leonid _Trevelyan_. And I don’t appreciate you pointing _arrows_ at him, either.”

She raised one of her palms up and it flickered with magic.

Leonid crouched there dumbly, eyes growing wide. Had he trained his arrow on the wrong person? …Little brother?

It clicked, and he felt his face grow hot. He lowered his bow and straightened up.

“I… suppose a bow is in order, after all,” he said, and was dismayed to find his voice a pitch higher than it was supposed to be.

He bowed low enough to, he hoped, forgive him his past transgressions. When he straightened again they weren’t even looking at him.

“Is he - do you recognize him?” asked the Templar, voice quiet.

“You would know better than me,” said the apostate. She turned to scrutinize Leonid and he squirmed under her stare.

“But Mother didn’t have any more children after you - that much I know,” she continued, “and this one can’t be older than eighteen.”

“Eighteen?” Leonid scoffed. “Clearly my roguish stubble isn’t enough. I’ll have to grow a full beard before I look my age. I’m twenty-two, in case you were interested in correcting your  _grossly_ misinformed opinion.”

The Templar stifled a laugh, and sobered when the apostate glared at him.

“I suppose introductions are in order on our behalf as well,” he said dryly. “I am Lord Alexandre Trevelyan of Ostwick, formerly of the Templar Order. Most just call me Sacha.”

“And I am Lady Eloise Trevelyan of Ostwick,” said the apostate, “formerly of the Ostwick Circle,” she added, giving Sacha a sly smile.

Leonid blinked.

“Well, what are we then, cousins?” he demanded, “But, you’d think I’d have met you, then. You’re not Trevelyan impostors, are you?”

“Are _you_ not the impostor?” retorted Sacha.

Eloise frowned at Leonid suspiciously. He winked at her, but instead of being charmed and delighted as she ought to have been, she simply narrowed her eyes.

“Regardless,” she started, but Leonid interrupted her.

“Ah - I think I know what’s going on,” he said, and paused for dramatic effect, “You’re the _other_ Trevelyans. From the other line.”

Sacha and Eloise looked at each other, then back at Leonid.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know?” he asked with a smirk. He enjoyed having the upper hand again.

“Please, enlighten us,” said Eloise, echoing her brother’s dry tone.

Leonid put his bow away so he could gesture more freely with his hands.

“The line split, what, a century ago? I believe it was a quarrel over a tea set - which _your_ line  _stole_ , by the way, so if there was any question of who is more morally sound, I believe I win by right of blood - that started the whole thing. And so one family became two. Maker knows why your line kept the last name - should have changed it to Teapot-Thief, or Porcelain-Pirate, or something else equally damning and inspiring of penitence.”

He paused here to make sure they hadn’t left while he was talking.

“Andraste’s tits, I had thought your family was some kind of hoax, some bedtime story my mother used to scare me into obedience. Don’t misbehave, Lenya, or you’ll have to go live with the _other_ Trevelyans,” he continued, mocking his mother’s voice.

Eloise cleared her throat, grinding Leonid to a halt. One half of his audience seemed suspiciously amused; Sacha looked a little red around the ears, though it was hard to tell with skin as dark as his, and he was hiding a smile behind his hand.

The other, however, looked irritated, wearing an expression nearly identical to what Sacha’s had been before, when he had simply been The Menacing Templar. Loathe as he was to admit it, Leonid was sure now that he had completely misread them; if anyone needed rescuing from the other, clearly it was the large, unshaven man who looked like he spent his free time wrestling bears.

“That is quite the story,” said Eloise, fixing her glare on Sacha.

Sacha, for his part, did a very good job rearranging his face into something sincere. In fact, he almost looked serious.

“It was the blue one?” he asked abruptly.

There was a pause as Leonid struggled to assign context to the question.

“Yes,” he said, finally, “With the little painted flower decal.”

“You don’t want that one back,” said Sacha with a wave of his hand. “There is a crack in one of the cups.”

“Obviously from _your_ family’s ill treatment of it,” scolded Leonid, though he couldn’t chase the smile away from his face. He looked over at Eloise again, whose lips twitched as if she was trying to do the same.

“Are you alone out here?” asked Sacha, brows knitting together.

The sudden change in demeanor threw Leonid off balance. “A- Alone?” We’re not back to trying to kill each other already, are we?”

It was meant as a joke, but his hand moved to his bow regardless.

“Well, we can’t have you running about sullying our good name,” said Eloise, appraising him again.

Leonid’s mouth went dry. She was joking, wasn’t she? The least she could do was offer him a smile or a blush, like her now significantly less frightening brother.

“I like him,” said Sacha simply, looking over at Eloise.

She frowned. “He tried to kill you.”

“We’re making our way to Haven,” he explained, ignoring Eloise’s comment. “We meant to attend the Conclave, but…”

“Sacha got us lost,” finished Eloise.

“I did _not_ ,” said Sacha peevishly, crossing his arms. “You are supposed to be in charge of navigating, anyway.”

“I was heading there myself,” started Leonid, “To the Conclave, that is. Got caught up in Amaranthine. I had… business, to attend to. And how fortunate that I did! I’d hate to number among the corpses that are no doubt littering the temple.”

Sacha winced, and Leonid wondered briefly if he had said something wrong.

“What kind of business?” demanded Eloise. Maker, was this an interrogation?

“Oh, drinking,” said Leonid lightly. “Gambling, fucking. General debauchery. I’m awfully good at it.”

“Better that than killing,” said Eloise. Neither her nor Sacha seemed fazed at his confession.

“You should come with us,” said Sacha, with that same abruptness as before. He looked to Eloise for approval.

She snorted. “After he threatened you?”

“He is alone,” said Sacha. Was he… pouting? “And I am sure he won’t do it again. Will you, Leonid?”

Leonid felt vaguely like he was a stray kitten being taken in by an excited child. A notion he would normally resent, but his stomach ached, and he was tired, and, now that he thought about it, Sacha _was_ incredibly handsome. And _liked_ him, apparently.

“You have my word,” he said, hoping he sounded sincere. “I certainly don’t _want_ to kill anybody - anybody who doesn’t deserve it,” he amended.

Eloise looked at Sacha for a long moment. He gave her an encouraging smile in return. Finally, she sighed.

“Don’t cause any more trouble,” she said to Leonid. He hoped that was her way of saying ‘yes.’


End file.
